


Game Theories

by daasgrrl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Consensual, Drug Use, M/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-05
Updated: 2014-02-05
Packaged: 2018-01-11 07:50:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 11,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1170548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daasgrrl/pseuds/daasgrrl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A fraternal history in Operation game pieces. No, really.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Game Theories

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to **evila_elf** for beta and a special thank you to **xanthe** for the helpful read-through. Any remaining confusion is entirely my own. Descriptions of the Operation game pieces lifted wholesale from [Wikipedia](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Operation_game).
> 
> This started out as a short, experimental take on that scene in _The Empty Hearse_ that somehow got way out of hand. I'm still not sure what I was thinking.

“I’m here to talk about a potentially catastrophic attack on London, Sherlock, not to play puerile children’s games.”  
   
“No reason we can’t do both. Or are you frightened you’ll lose?”  
   
“Don’t be ridiculous. There’s no _challenge_ here. All that’s required is a steady hand and a certain capacity for recklessness.”  
   
“So you are frightened. Don’t worry, brother dear, I’ll even let you go first. _While_ you tell me the latest.”  
   
Resigned, Mycroft picks up the tweezers.

 

  
  



	2. Adam's Apple

**Adam's Apple:** an apple in the throat. The Adam’s apple is a colloquial term referring to the thyroid cartilage surrounding the larynx that becomes more visually prominent during puberty (100 points).  
   
***  
   
 **1987**  
   
“I knew they’d be tedious, but did you have sex with any of them?”  
   
Under ordinary circumstances the question might be disturbing coming from a tousle-haired 11-year-old, but Mycroft is long resigned to Sherlock’s insistence that knowledge ought not to be restricted by such trivial things such as age. Since their parents have proved remarkably unsympathetic to this argument, to date Mycroft has already fielded a wide variety of questions ranging from the chemical composition of the universe to the logic of cannibalism. However, some things are _personal_.  
   
“That’s really none of your business, Sherlock. I’m reading law, not biology.”  
   
His weak attempt at levity fails. Sherlock tilts his head, narrowing his eyes. Mycroft sighs; after a term away, he’s become too used to people who will only read into his expression what he chooses to let them see. Sherlock, on the other hand, has studied him for an entire lifetime, as short as that might be.  
   
“So you _did_. What was it like?”  
   
“Why do you want to know?”  
   
Sherlock shrugs. “I have to find out some time. And you _told_ me never to ask Mummy or Daddy about it.”  
   
“True,” Mycroft agrees, repressing a shudder at the thought.  
   
“So?”  
   
Mycroft thinks for a moment before settling on the most basic description applicable to his experiences – mentally, physically, emotionally. “Messy.”  
   
“Was it better than mas...” Sherlock frowns, then recovers. “Mas-turbating?”  
   
“Sherlock!”  
   
“What?”  
   
“You can’t simply ask things like that.”  
   
“Why not?”  
   
“Because. It’s private.”  
   
“But was it? Because I’ve learned to do it properly now. Masturbate.” He sounds proud, defiant. “So these holidays you can teach me how to have sex, too.”  
   
Mycroft’s eyes widen. In spite of everything, Sherlock can still manage to surprise him. “We’ll discuss this later, Sherlock. I really need to go downstairs and talk to Mummy now.”  
   
Sherlock is standing between him and the door, but Mycroft is almost a foot taller and at least fifty pounds heavier. However, Sherlock is quick, and surprisingly strong. He launches himself into Mycroft’s mid-section, winding him, and making him stumble backwards, catching his hip painfully against the desk.  
   
“What do you think you’re doing?”  
   
“Promise first.”  
   
A promise might get him out of the room, but then Sherlock will only continue to hound him endlessly until he makes good. Better to get it over with now.  
   
“No.”  
   
“Why?”  
   
It was difficult to even know where to begin. Mycroft sits on the edge of the bed, where he can better meet Sherlock’s eyes. “You’re far too young to be talking about sex. It’s inappropriate.” It’s a familiar explanation, one that’s led Sherlock to complain that all the most interesting ideas are reserved for adults, at least in public. “And anyway, you can’t ever have sex with family members, at least not close ones.”  
   
“Why not? Mummy and Daddy are family, and they have sex with each other. Or at least they have done.” Sherlock’s nose wrinkles in distaste.  
   
“They’re married. They’re not related by blood.”  
   
“What’s wrong with being related by blood?”  
   
“Because… remember we talked about the royal family, and haemophilia? It’s genetically inadvisable.” He holds up a hand, already anticipating Sherlock’s next objection. “And it doesn’t matter whether or not either of you can actually have children. It’s _taboo_. Absolutely forbidden.”  
   
“I know what taboo means. It’s like superstition. Something that doesn’t make sense but which people do anyway.”  
   
“It’s worse than that. It means you can get in huge amounts of trouble. If I were to teach you about sex –” even the thought appals him, but Sherlock doesn’t know any better, and Mycroft keeps his voice calm and even, “– I would go to prison for it.”  
   
“Just because you’re my brother?”  
   
“Yes, but in this case mainly because you’re a child and I’m an adult. Being family just makes it even worse.”  
   
Sherlock slumps into a disgruntled huddle at his feet. “But I _asked_ you to.”  
   
“That makes no difference. Adults are supposed to know better.”  
   
“So I have to wait until I’m older. Like _everything_.” Sherlock’s voice has that tearful edge of frustration Mycroft knows all too well. He strokes Sherlock’s hair soothingly.  
   
“At least sixteen for men and women, and twenty-one for men and men,” Mycroft says automatically, before realising his mistake. With luck, Sherlock is too upset to notice. He attempts to cover with a quick distraction. “And I know that that doesn’t make sense either, but right now society has different rules for different couplings. Perhaps in future that will change.”  
   
But Sherlock is already glaring. “You’re only eighteen.”  
   
“Yes,” Mycroft says firmly. “Which is old enough to have sex.”  
   
“With a _girl_.”  
   
“It’s the principle…”  
   
“So you could _already_ go to prison.”  
   
“But I wouldn’t. Because they don’t usually prosecute for things like that.”  
   
“Which means you _could_ …”  
   
“But you’re eleven years old and they _do_ prosecute for things like that. Quite forcefully, and with good reason.” Mycroft doesn’t mean to get quite so heated, but this conversation has gone on long enough and squeamishness has worn his patience right down to the bone. “And even if you were older, you’re still my little brother, and I don’t _want_ to teach you. It’s not my place to do so. It’s very wrong of you to even ask.”  
   
Sherlock blinks up at him, clearly shocked at Mycroft’s unaccustomed tone, his self-righteousness. He scrambles to his feet, and Mycroft can see the tears already threatening to fall. He catches Sherlock by the wrist before he can flee.  
   
“Let me go!”  
   
Mycroft doesn’t, only holds him tight with both arms while he struggles. If Sherlock really wanted to break free, he could, but Mycroft won’t make it easy for him. Eventually, Sherlock’s breathing calms again.  
   
“Sherlock, I’m sorry.” He waits for Sherlock to turn and look at him, which he does, eyes still glistening. “I know you didn’t mean anything by it. But this whole conversation… it’s very uncomfortable for me. You’re still very much a child and it’s not something I even want to be discussing with you. You’ll understand why when you’re older. I promise.”  
   
Sherlock shakes his head furiously. “Just because you’ve had sex you think you’re a proper adult now and I don’t matter anymore and when you finish university you’ll go off and be with someone else forever and I _hate_ you.”  
   
Mycroft’s throat tightens, and he swallows. He doesn’t know how to say these things to Sherlock, how to explain that sex is just one more absurd thing people are expected to do. It doesn’t _mean_ anything. He settles for kissing Sherlock on the top of his head, and then cups his face between his hands to make sure he’s listening.  
   
“You’ll always matter to me, Sherlock. Always.”


	3. Wish Bone

**Wish Bone:** located on the left side of the chest. A wish bone is a chicken bone traditionally used by two people for making a wish (300 points).  
   
***  
   
 **2012**  
   
Mycroft has a front-row seat at Sherlock’s small, private, graveside service. Thankfully, he has enough influence to temporarily shut the grounds and bar the public – the fans, the stalkers, the morbidly curious – from this most sacred of funerary rituals. The minister talks and talks about heaven and rebirth, which is ironic considering Sherlock’s utter lack of belief in such things, but it’s essential that traditions be preserved, appearances maintained. He hopes Sherlock has managed to bypass security and watch the spectacle from afar; there’s no reason he should escape the suffering created by his own demise.  
   
The gathering comprises a miscellany of Sherlock’s friends and acquaintances, but Mycroft is the sole representative of Sherlock’s immediate family. Mummy would have wept effortless tears, but Daddy has the unfortunate traits of reflexive honesty and terrible timing. However, it means Mycroft has to bear all the implications of their absence. He knows John already blames him for Sherlock’s death, and now it appears to everyone present that even his own parents are too upset with Mycroft’s betrayal to attend.  
   
There’s actually some truth to that; despite everything, Mycroft has somehow still been held responsible for Sherlock’s grand scheme. It’s a pattern that’s been repeated endlessly since Sherlock was born, almost literally so; Mycroft swears that there were times Sherlock would smile up at him from his cradle, only to suddenly burst into heartfelt sobs moments before Mummy entered the room. Mycroft would be reprimanded while Sherlock was cuddled, soothed, his tear-stained eyes now wide and innocent over Mummy’s shoulder. Very little has changed.  
   
Mycroft stands and takes a handful of earth. The grave gapes open before him, the polished wood and brass of the coffin already sunk deep into it. There was no church service, no opportunity for viewing the body – such terrible injuries, you understand – but he knows that inside lie the remains of Sherlock’s look-alike going to a far more dignified rest than he ever deserved. Mycroft throws the earth onto the coffin’s lid, where it lands with a scattered thump. He thinks that in some macabre way it’s not dissimilar from the act of throwing coins into a fountain, and making a wish. _Please let Sherlock be all right._  
   
The preparations for Sherlock’s departure have been made as covertly as possible, meaning Mycroft’s had to handle most of them himself. Sherlock will be smuggled out of the country under a new identity, to assume a new life, for as long as necessary to break Moriarty’s network. Nowadays, the depth of electronic manipulation required to achieve that end is considerable, and nerve-wracking. Mycroft is exhausted, which is all to the good if it makes him look convincingly worn and guilt-stricken.  
   
As the mourners follow one by one, and more clumps of earth litter the coffin, Mycroft thinks of all the times he’s been parted from Sherlock, the times he’s made similar wishes for Sherlock’s continued safety.  
   
There was the period after Sherlock had moved out of their flat for the first time, when Mycroft had completely lost track of him for months. Thank god he’d been found before falling too far to be saved. That had led to their periodic ‘arrangement’: a new way of dealing with Sherlock’s old problems. Afterwards Sherlock had finally moved out on his own, taking several years to establish and build his consulting practice, only to leave for abroad once more. He’d spoken of seeing more of the criminal world beyond London, of broadening his experience. He had made it home safely that time, too, but there had been several breaks in contact during which Mycroft had feared the worst.  
   
Now he’s leaving for a third time, and as usual there’s no one Mycroft can talk to about his concerns. Molly knows, of course, but as a confidant she’s quite out of the question, and his parents remain less than sympathetic. As the minister concludes with some time-worn homilies, a solo violinist begins to play _Abide With Me_ , and suddenly Mycroft feels a tightness in his chest, and the back of his throat closes up with emotion. It’s a ridiculous bout of sentiment, especially since Sherlock is alive and well and no doubt waiting impatiently for Mycroft to get back to work. But Mycroft is nevertheless reminded of all the things that could so easily have been.  
   
He’ll face one last goodbye this week, this time in private. He trusts that this one will be as impermanent as all the others. The problem is that with Sherlock, he can never really be sure.


	4. Wrenched Ankle

**Wrenched Ankle** : a wrench in the right ankle. The name is an alternative term for a sprained ankle (100 points).  
   
***  
   
 **1997**  
   
One night, Sherlock insists that they watch a video together. The cover alone makes Mycroft wonder exactly which parts of London’s seedy underbelly Sherlock’s been exploring all this time, and he sits back to watch with a sense of trepidation. Sherlock sits beside him with an anticipatory air that indicates he’s watched this particular video before.  
   
A young man walks along an anonymous street. He’s improbably well-muscled, and wearing a white T-shirt and jeans that are both a little too tight for anyone’s comfort. They must be intended to compensate for the production values, which are terrible. As he turns the corner into a conveniently deserted cul-de-sac, a car pulls up alongside, and two thugs jump out. Their musculature is even more impressive, and they’re wearing surprisingly little in view of their apparent intentions.  
   
Within moments, the fit young man is pulled into the car, struggling for all he’s worth, which only serves to accentuate the various bulges of his physique. The back seat of the car is cramped, but still spacious enough for the thugs to bind his hands, and gag him with a torn white rag.  
   
Beside Mycroft rests his ever-present stack of paperwork, and he reaches for the top one, which is a briefing on the imminent return of British Hong Kong to the People’s Republic of China. He scans it efficiently while keeping half an eye on the screen. Sherlock throws him a look, but doesn’t attempt to intervene.  
   
“Couldn’t you just describe it for me?” Mycroft asks, after a paragraph about legislative reforms.  
   
Sherlock shakes his head and reaches for the remote control. The picture fuzzes and now the victim is bundled roughly down a long corridor at top speed, his shirt having suffered irreparable damage in the meantime. It’s torn in multiple places, and the fabric that remains is clinging and damp with sweat. Shortly thereafter the clothing is torn away completely, and the now-naked ‘victim’ is pushed face down onto a thin, worn mattress, his hands re-bound behind his back. One of the thugs, now also shirtless, cuffs him by the ankle to a handy metal stake at the mattress’ edge.  
   
The tape resumes its normal speed, just in time for Mycroft to catch some execrable monologue about someone being taught a proper lesson about something. Judging from the roughness of the thug’s speech, it’s clearly not a lesson in diction, not that the gagged young man is able to form much in the way of a response anyway. Thankfully the one-sided conversation ends there as Thug Two brandishes a long, thin cane for his victim’s contemplation before moving around behind him. The implications are unmistakeable.  
   
Sherlock has pressed up closer to him, his eyes bright, and Mycroft sets aside his papers.  
   
“No,” he says, understanding the general outlines of what Sherlock is telling him even as the first blow falls. Their arrangement may be outrageously unconventional, but that doesn’t mean Mycroft is open to _any_ kind of perversion that might cross his path. He has no intention of being on either end of such treatment, giving pain or receiving it. Red welts begin to rise on the man’s back, and his groans are audible even around the gag. The chain clanks as the man strains against it.  
   
“Why not?” Sherlock says. “It’s what you’ve always wanted to do, after all.”  
   
“Not exactly. And under entirely different circumstances.”  
   
“You could pretend,” Sherlock says.  
   
“I don’t care to.”  
   
For a moment Mycroft thinks wistfully of Alain, whose tastes in pornography only extended about as far as watching an occasional threesome, but pushes the thought away. Sherlock is what he has now. On screen, the ‘victim’s’ arousal is unflinching even under such harsh treatment, while Sherlock’s own is becoming no less obvious. As Mycroft pointedly turns the recording off, Sherlock squirms against him with intent.  
   
They still end up in the bedroom.  
   
Since Mycroft conceded that first, crucial battle to Sherlock, he’s lost every significant skirmish since. Sherlock is difficult to resist at the best of times, and when he drops his air of bored disdain it’s impossible. There are limits to what Mycroft is prepared to concede, but by the time Sherlock scrambles forward onto the bed his hands have been tightly, reluctantly, bound behind him. Mycroft’s never liked that tie, anyway; the shade of purple is too deep, vulgar. Apart from the scrap of fabric, Sherlock’s now completely naked, his skin a smooth, pale contrast to its surroundings. He’s also fully aroused, even though he’s balanced uncomfortably on his shoulders and his hips are raised completely off the bed, leaving his cock untouched.  
   
Mycroft runs a hand over the curve of Sherlock’s arse, stroking tenderly, and Sherlock’s breath hisses out between his teeth.  
   
“Yes,” he says. “Yes, now, _quickly_.”  
   
“Patience, Sherlock.”  
   
The binding of Sherlock’s wrists has taken time and concentration, and Mycroft’s experience has been somewhat less satisfying in comparison. He’s nowhere near ready to give Sherlock what he wants. However, he’s beginning to realise that one of the advantages of having Sherlock in this position, in addition to the spectacular view, is that Sherlock is unable to be as physically demanding as usual. Mycroft can, for once, take things at entirely his own pace. It’s only what Sherlock wants, after all.  
   
The thought makes him smile, and he brings both hands up this time, running them thoroughly over Sherlock’s arse, along his thighs, his thumbs stroking down the cleft between his buttocks.  
   
“What are you doing?” Sherlock sounds remarkably snappish, considering the indignity of his position.  
   
“Maybe I ought to gag you as well,” Mycroft suggests, beginning to enjoy himself now. He bends forward, one knee on the bed, and sinks his teeth gently into one of Sherlock’s well-muscled cheeks. He increases the pressure gently, feeling Sherlock clench and squirm beneath him. The sensation is surprisingly delicious, both the yielding of Sherlock’s tender flesh and having him at a disadvantage for once in his life. Mycroft’s arousal begins to waken accordingly.  
   
“No… no… _oh_ ,” Sherlock moans, but makes no real effort to pull away. The husky desperation in his voice makes Mycroft abandon any further thoughts of gagging him. Instead he pulls away, and admires the reddened indents, lapping at them lovingly with his tongue before moving over to his other buttock and repeating the process. Again Sherlock squirms and moans and curses him, and suddenly Mycroft is hard and aching.  
   
He realises he could take Sherlock just like this, right now, without care or consideration. It would hurt, of course, and Sherlock would no doubt struggle and fight, but if Mycroft twisted his bound arms up further behind his back, used all his leverage and body weight… he could do it. The thought makes him tremble with fear and desire. But he would never do such a thing – of course not – and so instead he takes particular care with his preparations, slicking up his fingers and stretching Sherlock slowly and carefully. Judging from Sherlock’s vocalisations, it proves to be torture of an entirely different kind. However, Mycroft tells him in stern tones to stop complaining and hold still, and to his astonishment he’s obeyed. It makes the first sweet slide into Sherlock’s body even sweeter.  
   
“Oh, god.” Sherlock pushes back against him, but Mycroft slaps him, hard, leaving a reddening handprint over the faded bite mark, and Sherlock stills again. “Touch me,” he demands, but Mycroft ignores him, doing exactly as he pleases. He builds a smooth, steady rhythm, hearing Sherlock’s breath catch on every thrust. He regrets that he can’t see Sherlock’s face properly, but it’s still very, very good.  
   
“ _Please_ , Mycroft,” Sherlock begs, and it almost sends him over the edge there and then, but he manages to hang onto the last shreds of his control. He wraps his hand around Sherlock’s cock, jerking roughly, and almost immediately Sherlock is bucking up against him, making no effort to stifle his cries. Mycroft closes his eyes and allows his orgasm to shudder through him, leaving him breathless and spent, still half-curled over Sherlock’s body. When he can move, he pulls himself off and collapses beside Sherlock, who has rolled over onto one side.  
   
Mycroft kisses him then, long and deep, while Sherlock is still unable to push him away.


	5. Writer's Cramp

**Writer's Cramp:** a pencil in the forearm; refers to the real writer’s cramp, a soreness in the wrist that can be cured by resting it (200 points).  
   
***  
   
 **2013**  
   
Sometimes it seems as though Mycroft’s entire world is composed of papers. Papers to be read, written, signed, annotated, ignored. Computers and the internet are all very well, but paper is impervious to remote hacking, power outages, and accidental transmission to multiple parties. Quite often the quality of the paper coincides with the importance of the information it contains, even before the addition of discreet embossing or blatantly gilded crests.  
   
This report, though, looks ordinary enough on the surface. In style and format it’s exactly like a thousand other intelligence summaries, betraying no sign that the man who compiled it is now dead. That information is only contained in a second, supplementary report, written by his now ex-handler, but Mycroft sets that aside for the moment to concentrate on the former. Its repercussions are potentially explosive; in Mycroft’s opinion quite literally so.  
   
He flips the stack of white bond back to its front page and contemplates for a minute, hands steepled. While the report centres on London, the implications contained within it extend far beyond her borders. Exactly how far, Mycroft has yet to determine, although he feels confident narrowing it down to somewhere in Eastern Europe at this time.  
   
His fingertips tap restlessly on the smooth surface as he makes his decision, the chain of phone calls and arrangements it will entail already unspooling before him. The most dismaying realisation is that he must oversee matters personally. His agents can be relied upon to pinpoint a location, but an extraction is often fraught with danger and uncertainty, and therefore in this particular case he can afford to trust no one but himself. He does so hate the tedium of travel.  
   
Still, it must be done, for queen and country. At no time does he admit to himself that a report like this is, perhaps, exactly what he’s been waiting for.  
   
He picks up the phone to call Anthea and set things in motion. It’s time for Sherlock to come home.


	6. Charley Horse

**Charley Horse:** small horse resting near the hip joint; a play on the real charley horse, which is a sudden cramp in the leg or foot that can be cured by massage or stretching (200 points).  
   
***  
   
 **2000**  
   
It’s not really a room, more of a cell, even though the door is only nominally locked and there aren’t any bars to speak of. Sherlock could leave easily enough if he wanted to, only he doesn’t really have anywhere to go. Not anymore. His surroundings are about eight feet square, with a floor covered in pale pink tiling like an oversized bathroom, and a covered light burning palely overhead. A stainless steel sink and toilet stand in one corner, and the area surrounding them effectively acts as one giant drain.  
   
The only other furniture in the room is the double mattress on which he’s currently lying, raised only a few inches from the floor by a fixed metal frame. There’s the tell-tale crinkle of a mattress protector whenever he moves, but the sheets and pillows are crisp and clean. Or at least they were a day ago, when he arrived. Now they’re streaked with dirt and sweat and traces of vomit spattered on his clothes from his erratic trips to and from the toilet. He’s been in the same vest, jeans and hoodie for the past week, but the smell of industrial-strength disinfectant drowns out all others.  
   
He hadn’t meant for this to happen. Originally, it was all part of the plan, the experience, his sightseeing tour of London from all its ugliest angles. He was already well-acquainted with the genteel face she showed her most privileged citizens, but it was important, he felt, to understand all of her, from major arteries to tiniest capillaries, to the blood and stench and guts bound just beneath the skin. He’d thought his native intelligence more than adequate defence against any threat, but perhaps he’d taken the immersion route just a touch too far.  
   
Another shiver runs through him, and he wraps himself into a tighter ball on the bed. The room is heated, but it’s no match for the ice running through his veins as his body struggles to adjust to its new, deprived circumstances. It had been such a gradual thing – recreational, experimental – that he hadn’t even thought he had a problem, not really, but his body is loudly informing him otherwise. Later he will understand that physical dependencies can easily outstrip the psychological ones, especially at the beginning.  
   
Such revelations are of little interest to him at the moment, however, especially when the cramps begin again. The muscles in his legs pull tight, unyielding, and his eyes fill with unshed tears as he tries to breathe through the pain of it. He thinks of a horsehair bow, tightened beyond its limits until the stick bends and snaps. It could have been worse; he’s been administered morphine to take the edge off, but that was hours ago, an eternity of time, and it’s not _enough_. After the pain comes the familiar, gut-churning nausea, and he makes the trip to the toilet bowl again on shaking legs, and then back to the bed, exhausted.  
   
He’s in no danger of dying, or so he’s been told by a red-faced git with thinning hair and a pointless white coat; he’ll just wish he had the option. There’s a steady, comfortless glow from the camera in the far corner that’s overseeing every step of his humiliation. Occasionally he looks over at it and wonders if Mycroft is out there somewhere, watching, and enjoying the spectacle of what he’s become. Some relentlessly honest part of him knows he’s being unfair, but he’s beyond caring. Self-pity and self-righteousness are all he has left to him right now, and he’s making the most of them.  
   
As the pain fades back into a low background ache of discomfort, he reaches for the jug and tumbler on the floor beside the bed, both made of a thick, shatterproof plastic. The sweet electrolyte solution soothes the dryness of his throat, and he lies back down and closes his eyes, an arm curled around his head.  
   
It was in much this same position that he’d been roughly woken from sleep two nights ago, in surroundings even less palatial than his current ones. A filthy mattress in an abandoned warehouse, shared only with rats and spiders and an occasional fellow resident seeking shelter from the cold. Startled awake, he could only make out two men in suits, carving blocky silhouettes into the darkness that were strikingly out of place in that neighbourhood. He’d instinctively fought, but they had the advantage of not only surprise, but weight and obvious experience. Only when they’d subdued him, cuffed him face-down on his own bedding, did either of them speak.  
   
“Mr Holmes?”  
   
He’d only pressed his lips tightly together, but a hand had come down to twist his face to one side, and he’d screwed his eyes tight against the sudden glare of torchlight.  
   
“It’s him.”  
   
“You’re a difficult man to find, Mr Holmes.” He was helped to his feet, none too gently. “Your brother sends his regards, and says it’s time to come home.”  
   
He’d only laughed at that, sharp and bitter, because Mycroft’s flat is hardly _home_ , not any more. Compromise had never been their strong suit, and as Sherlock continued to push, Mycroft had drawn further away. He hadn’t thrown Sherlock out, exactly, but his hours at the office had grown longer and longer until Sherlock might as well have been living alone. He wasn’t even sure how long it had taken for Mycroft to miss him when he’d left. Months ago, now.  
   
The resentment wells up again, and Sherlock grits his teeth and turns on his side to get whatever rest he can. He’ll need all his strength for what lies ahead. He’s already realised that this, the physical withdrawal, is the easy part. Far worse will be having to face Mycroft again after it’s finally over.


	7. Spare Ribs

**Spare Ribs:** two ribs fused together as one piece. "Spare ribs" are a cut of meat or a dish prepared from that cut (150 points).  
   
***  
   
 **2014**  
   
“It’s barely changed,” Sherlock says, coming to a halt in the middle of the room as Mycroft closes the door behind them. He surveys his surroundings with a critical eye.  
   
He isn’t at his best; he’s hardly slept in the last three days, only when he’d unavoidably nodded off in between beatings, and after that a fitful half-hour doze on the plane trip home. He never did sleep well on planes. Still, Mycroft’s bolt-hole above the Diogenes may as well have been preserved in aspic. He can see a little more wear on the carpet, a patterned dark burgundy, new areas of scuffed paint caused by careless cleaning staff. No dust build-up. There are fresh flowers and newspapers – current – on a side table, no doubt replaced daily by a chambermaid regardless of whether or not the room is occupied.  
   
Mycroft, too, looks much the same, suffering only the same minor wear-and-tear as his surroundings. At Belgrade airport Sherlock had emerged from being medically poked and prodded to find Mycroft already changed back into his London attire. A little less hair; a few more wrinkles; the skin at his throat growing thinner with age. He is carrying a small shoulder bag, which he slings onto the coffee table.  
   
“The shower’s through there,” Mycroft says, and it sounds like a reminder, but they both know perfectly well where it is, and so it’s really an order. Sherlock’s too tired to argue.  
   
It’s been a week since he’s stood under a decent gush of running water – no time in Belgrade, only the bumpy roads en route to the airport, a clinic visit, and then straight into Mycroft’s tiny chartered plane – and at first he just stands there letting it flow over his skin. The water is carefully lukewarm, in deference to the raised red welts still marking his skin. Elsewhere he’s various shades of blue-black, in some places already fading out to yellow. Two of his ribs are cracked, but there’s nothing to be done but bear it until it heals. He winces as he finally reaches for the soap and begins to run it over himself, washing away not just the grime of a Serbian dungeon, but the underlying filth of the past two years.  
   
He’s finally back in London. Home.  
   
He emerges wrapped in the robe he found hung on the bathroom door, blue terry towelling with a ridiculous monogrammed ‘M’ on the breast. Mycroft has unfolded the sofa bed, and set it up with sheets and a pillow. Sherlock throws it a disgusted look, but it’s part of the arrangement, and so he tucks himself into it while Mycroft disappears into the bathroom.  
   
The ceiling hasn’t changed either, although the maid has missed a thread of cobweb clinging to the edge of the moulding. Everything feels too still, too quiet; comfortingly familiar yet incredibly strange. Fatigue is blurring the edges of his vision, his brain continues to spin and spin, yet seems to get nowhere. He’s been dead a long time; tomorrow he’ll need to rise from the grave once more and see what he’s missed. He needs to see John first. Definitely John. The thought terrifies him.  
   
Sherlock jolts awake again as the sound of running water finally stops, and Mycroft emerges from the bathroom with a towel tied around his waist. He exposes an expanse of white freckled skin with darker hair that curls down his chest, an unruly contrast to the prim figure he likes to present to the world. It’s a sight Sherlock has missed, even if he won’t ever admit it. Mycroft goes over to a closet and extracts a pair of pyjamas. The towel goes over a chair as he changes into them.  
   
When he’s finished, he meets Sherlock’s gaze with a twist of his mouth, then lowers himself carefully onto the edge of the sofa bed. He’s still radiating moist heat from the shower, and Sherlock can smell the matching traces of soap on his skin. Not since those fleeting moments in the Serbian dungeon have they had the luxury of being truly alone.  
   
Sherlock sits up slowly and they look at each other in the stillness. The half-smirk is still on Mycroft’s face as he starts to speak, no doubt to utter something suitably dry and barbed, but Sherlock kisses him before the words can take shape. He’s not even thinking anymore; it’s blind instinct that drives him towards Mycroft, the ever-present ache he hasn’t consciously thought about since leaving London. An instant later he slumps against Mycroft’s chest, exhaustion finally claiming him.  
   
“Come to bed,” Mycroft says gently, the smirk gone, and stands. Sherlock pries his eyes open long enough to clamber out of the sofa bed, leaving evidence of a few stray hairs on the pillow and his imprint in the sheets. For appearance’s sake.  
   
The curtains have already been drawn, but Sherlock watches Mycroft turn off all the lights before the bed dips beside him in the darkness. A long, exhaled breath, and then Mycroft’s arm comes to gather firmly around him. Sherlock turns onto his side, his back to Mycroft’s front, and shifts Mycroft’s arm away from pressing too heavily on his injured ribs, but keeps it close. His battered body finally begins to drift into sleep. He’s home.


	8. The Ankle Bone Connected to the Knee Bone

**The Ankle Bone Connected to the Knee Bone:** This is not a plastic piece, but rather a rubber band that must be stretched between two pegs at the left ankle and knee. The name is taken from the African-American spiritual “Dem Bones" (200 points).  
   
***  
   
 **2001**  
   
Connections. These are what he lives and breathes, what they both do. However, while Sherlock dwells on the petty lives of individuals, Mycroft deals in entire nations. When a minor street protest is met with military force; when a government issues an excessive number of short-dated bonds; when a region’s annual rainfall dips below a critical level for crop yields; Mycroft needs to know. Sherlock makes do with his homeless network of couriers and petty spies, but Mycroft’s agents are far better trained and equipped.  
   
Most of what Mycroft needs can be obtained without leaving his office; without, in fact, even leaving his desk. His intelligence services identify the items of greatest significance and discard the rest. Still, there are some things that require the personal touch. Hence the unavoidable meetings with diplomats and prime ministers, and other men much like himself who haunt the shadowy recesses of power. The ones who get things done.  
   
If work were his only responsibility, his life would be simpler, but affairs of government are not the only ones requiring his personal attention. If he’s really going to give Sherlock what he most wants – _needs_ – he has to know what he’s doing, or Sherlock could end up in an even worse state than before.  
   
Mycroft begins his study with anatomy, building on the fundamentals of what he already knows. In his mind, successive layers of muscle, fat and sinew wrap themselves over a framework of bone, mapping themselves directly onto his mental projection of Sherlock’s body. “Safe”, well-padded areas outline themselves in green – buttocks, thighs, below the shoulder blades.  
   
In more practical terms, he’s torn between the need for hands-on guidance and the need for discretion. However, it’s his business to know the skeletons kept in other people’s closets, and he engineers a suitably anonymous introduction to a man who will coach him in the basics of what he needs to know. Mycroft will be asking all the questions. He finds the sheer range of implements available for the fulfilment of such unusual desires startling, but he’s more concerned with gaining a solid understanding of the underlying principles. The rest he can work out for himself.  
   
If only his brother were so easy to understand. Perhaps if he could somehow uncover all the crucial junctures in Sherlock’s life that made him want such things, it would all be made so much clearer. A childhood spanking combined with self-exploration; the pain of humiliation soothed with the consolation of masturbation. Or perhaps such analysis would only ultimately prove pointless. The entirety of Sherlock is too complex even for him to fully comprehend. All he knows is that if inflicting a little controlled pain on Sherlock might save him from further self-destruction, then he really has little choice.  
   
The preparation keeps him busy enough that he hasn’t time to consider his own feelings on that matter. They’re of little importance anyway. Sherlock is his responsibility, his penance, and he’ll do whatever it takes to keep him alive and stable and away from the dangerous temptations that might beckon when boredom strikes. Mycroft never wants to do that again, to turn up dutifully at the office day after day while he waits to hear news of his missing brother. He’s since realised that he will do anything he can to keep those connections alive between them. Because in a world full of goldfish, in the end all they really have is each other.


	9. Funny Bone

**Funny Bone:** a play on the anatomical name for the upper arm bone (the humerus), and a reference to the colloquial name of the ulnar nerve (200 points).  
   
***  
   
 **2014**  
   
“He was pleased to see you, I take it? Let’s see – neck bruising implying attempted strangulation, followed by several punches to the mouth and jaw, and, oh, yes, a head butt. Clearly grieving for you has not robbed the good doctor of all his customary energy.”  
   
“I don’t understand! I _said_ I was sorry. At least… I think I did.”  
   
“And that should make up for everything, should it? You turn up, and he should forgive you, just like that. _You_ still haven’t forgiven me for the time I told you Flopsy had gone into that evening’s pie instead of to the vet. The fuss you made.”  
   
“That’s completely different. This was an important, critical deception. _You_ were just being cruel.”  
   
“True, but I was _ten_. And yet my point still stands. You still remember it, because some things are difficult to forgive.”  
   
“So what should I do about John?”  
   
“You’re asking me.”  
   
“Right, yes, yes, stupid, what was I thinking… what exactly are you smirking about?”  
   
“I go out of my way to rescue you – ”  
   
“You did not _rescue_ – ”  
   
“– from one severe beating, only to have someone else take up right where he left off. If you wanted punishing, you ought to have just come to me to begin with.”  
   
“That’s not in the least funny, Mycroft.”  
   
“Oh, come now… it is a _little_ funny.”


	10. Butterflies in Stomach

**Butterflies in Stomach:** a large butterfly in the middle of the torso. The name comes from the feeling in the stomach when nervous, excited or afraid (100 points).  
   
***  
   
 **2009**  
   
Sherlock waits.  
   
When he hears the door bell, he quickly re-boils the kettle, and surveys the tea tray once more. The china and the silverware have been laid out properly, all necessary accoutrements present and accounted for. Voices drift up the stairwell, the higher-pitched tones of Mrs Hudson dominating. He pours the water into the pot, and carries the entire tray over to the coffee table. Footsteps come up the stairs. He deposits the tray on the coffee table, and has just enough time to sling himself casually into his favoured armchair before Mycroft appears in the doorway.  
   
Mycroft takes a single step into the room. He appears to take his surroundings, and Sherlock, in one long sweep of his eyes, staying longest on the latter. There’s not much to see, as yet; Sherlock barely got back a week ago, and the rooms are almost as new to him as they are to Mycroft. He’s chosen to repatriate a few boxes of books and equipment, but they’re currently somewhere in a shipping container between New York and London. For the moment, the space has little more character than an upmarket B &B.  
   
“It’s very… cosy,” Mycroft says, with a twist of his mouth that Sherlock interprets as disdain. It’s certainly nothing like the oversized elegance of Mycroft’s own flat.  
   
“Perhaps if you didn’t require quite so much _space_ ,” Sherlock retorts. It’s an instinctive response, as reflexive as breathing; he doesn’t even mean anything by it. Although it’s true that Mycroft has put on a good twelve pounds since Sherlock saw him last.  
   
“Meanwhile, I hope that Hudson woman downstairs will at least ensure you don’t starve. Meet her somewhere in your travels, did you? All that American familiarity of manner and inquiring after one’s health. Unnatural. I hope she re-acculturates quickly.”  
   
“Tea?”  
   
“Thank you.” Mycroft sits in the chair opposite without further invitation. They discuss the comparative homicide rates of the American Mid-West and London, the closure of the British embassy in Yemen, and Mummy’s exasperation that Sherlock has evaded yet another family Christmas.  
   
Beneath the conversation, which is uncharacteristically civil, they’re engaged in a different exchange altogether; a struggle to gather as much information as possible while giving nothing away. Mycroft still wears Alain’s ring on his finger, plus the weight gain indicates his vanity’s at a low ebb; he’s not seeing anyone, or at least no one _important_. However, Mycroft’s manner is as cool and precise as always - except, perhaps, for the way the tips of his fingers brush in tiny, unconscious movements against the fabric of his trouser legs from time to time.  
   
For his part, Sherlock tries to remain indifferent, opaque, but the sight of Mycroft has set his heart racing and created a fluttering sensation in his near-empty stomach. It’s ridiculous, but he has no more control over it than he’s ever had over any of this in the first place. Much as he affects a veneer of calm, Mycroft must notice the way his hand shakes slightly in pouring the tea, the slowness of his responses. Despite appearances, it’s really Mycroft who has the home ground advantage; it might be Sherlock’s flat, but after all his time away the entirety of London feels cold and unfamiliar, and he’s the first to break.  
   
“I’ll show you the rest of the flat,” he says, far too abruptly, and stands.  
   
“I doubt there’s anything left to see,” Mycroft says, but sets down his cup anyway.  
   
Mycroft has barely cleared the door leading off the kitchen when Sherlock pushes it shut behind them. They regard each other for a tense moment before Mycroft takes the initiative and pulls Sherlock gently towards him. Sherlock doesn’t like _gentle_ , he never has, but for once he accepts Mycroft’s lead and leans in to the kiss, feeling the subdued spark between them flickering back to life. It’s been too long; he’s kept this part of himself locked away, kept it in storage against the day he returned. Memories of pleasure and pain intertwine, and in his confusion he suddenly wants to anger Mycroft, to do or say something that will bring his brother’s wrath thundering down upon him.  
   
However, he doesn’t know if Mycroft can be pushed so far, so soon, and so he plays along for the moment, making a show of pliant affection. It’s not even a lie; just not the whole truth.  
   
“You’re going to need to find yourself a flatmate,” Mycroft says, when he pulls away.  
   
It’s quite possibly the very last thing Sherlock expected to hear. “Why?”  
   
“Because our parents are no longer in the country, and I’m simply too busy to keep a close eye on you nowadays.”  
   
“You may have failed to notice that I’ve been surviving quite well on my own for the past two years.”  
   
“Then perhaps you should return overseas.”  
   
“Don’t be absurd. I just got back.”  
   
“Sherlock, there have been some significant… changes in London while you’ve been away. Firstly, I’ve received a promotion. Quite a decent one, for a change.”  
   
Given Mycroft’s insufferable air of smugness and tendency towards understatement, Sherlock interprets this – correctly, as it later turns out – to mean that Mycroft has finally managed to manoeuvre himself into effectively running the country the way he’d always planned.  
   
“So?” he responds, enjoying the flash of irritation that crosses his brother’s face.  
   
“Which means that London is now correspondingly more dangerous for both of us.”  
   
“Oh, don’t flatter yourself.”  
   
“Nevertheless,” Mycroft says. “Perhaps if you’d chosen to be a scientist or an academic instead of cavorting with the criminal classes things would be different. But under the circumstances I must insist. Or I’ll be forced to sever all ties with you, for both our sakes. _All_ ties.”  
   
It’s on the tip of Sherlock’s tongue to say _fine_ , and leave it there, but the feel of Mycroft’s mouth and the accompanying memories of past pleasures are now too fresh in his mind to ignore. He realises now that this is exactly what Mycroft intended all along. Bastard, bastard, _bastard_.  
   
“Impossible. Who would want me for a flatmate?” he asks instead.  
   
“I only ask that you try,” Mycroft says. “In the meantime, I may have to have a quiet word with Mrs Hudson.”  
   
“Oh, you’ll get no help from her. She’s completely addle-brained.”  
   
“You’ve forgotten already, haven’t you? As soon as you gave me your new address I had it, and her, thoroughly investigated. I know exactly who she is and what she’s capable of.”  
   
In truth, Sherlock hadn’t realised his brother’s reach now extended quite that far. He’s forced to once again upgrade the annoyance level of his brother’s infernal _concern_. “Then you also know she’s not about to spy on me.”  
   
“That would rather depend on the amount of incentive I offered her, wouldn’t it?”  
   
It’s true that Mrs Hudson’s finances have become somewhat straitened after the execution of her late unlamented husband, or Sherlock would never have been offered the flat to begin with. Faced with imminent defeat, Sherlock resorts to the oldest of tactics. “Go away, Mycroft.”  
   
“But you haven’t even shown me the bedroom yet.”  
   
“I’ve changed my mind.”  
   
“Pity. Perhaps I can persuade you to pay me a visit at the club a bit later on, then. I have a few new acquisitions which might interest you. I’ve been waiting quite a long time to try them out.” Mycroft’s eyes are blue steel and the harmonics in his voice are making Sherlock weak at the knees.  
   
“Maybe,” Sherlock says, when what he’d meant to say was “no”.  
   
“Good.” Mycroft smiles. His fingers, surprisingly slender, reach up to stroke the side of Sherlock’s face. “I’ve missed you greatly, brother mine.” He brushes past Sherlock to re-enter the kitchen. “And don’t forget what I said about the flatmate.”  
   
By the time Sherlock has gathered himself enough to reply, Mycroft is already halfway down the stairs.


	11. Water on the Knee

**Water on the Knee:** a pail of water in the knee; colloquialism for fluid accumulation around the knee joint (150 points).  
   
***  
   
 **2014**  
   
He kneels in a corner, hands behind his back, Mycroft’s tie looped tightly around his wrists. A ring of keys has been slipped over an index finger, to be further held in place by the clenching of his fist. If he loosens his grip, they will fall noisily to the floor. He’s never yet released them, not in all these years.  
   
Mycroft looms over him, still fully dressed, although his top shirt button is now undone and a sliver of skin cleaves the white cotton. Sherlock lets his gaze run further down the front of Mycroft’s shirt to the belt buckle, the bulge in his trousers, the crisp folds down to the shine on the leather of his shoes. He swallows. It’s been a long while, but the sudden loss of the chemical bliss in his veins has brought it to life again, the hollowness, the wanting.  
   
“That was an incredibly stupid stunt to pull,” Mycroft says. “Given your history. Not to mention that pursuing Magnussen is absolutely out of the question.” Sherlock could argue all of these things, of course, but he doesn’t. Not now. The hard edge in Mycroft’s tone never fails to send the quivers along his spine, divert the blood into his stiffening cock. Sherlock bows his head in mock contrition, but allows himself to feel the fear all the same.  
   
His vision clears slightly as Mycroft paces a slow circle before him, telling him again how stupid he is, how naive, how he thought he could possibly get away with it. Mycroft’s words sink into his flesh, followed by the thin, stinging pain of a cut just beneath his shoulder blades. Then another, and another, striking in delicate, parallel precision. The skin of his back begins to catch fire, and he gasps.  
   
“Please, Mycroft. I’m sorry.” His fingers stay curled.  
   
“Not sorry enough.” Mycroft says, and strikes him a fourth time, a fifth. He times the cuts so that Sherlock has just enough time to register the pain before applying the next in budding crescendo. Tears prick at the corner of Sherlock’s eyes but do not fall.  
   
“I’m sorry,” he repeats, letting his voice break just so. Mycroft is fully versed in his tactics, though, and the last cut is even harder than the rest. This time Sherlock’s stifled sob is real.  
   
“Quiet,” Mycroft says, and turns to lay the cane on the polished wood of his table.  
   
“That’s for deliberately, _stupidly_ , putting yourself in the path of temptation. Then we come to the insufferable rudeness. If it hadn’t been for John – and the mystery _houseguest_ you had hidden away, yes? – I would have had you on your knees right there and then. In your own living room. Do you understand?”  
   
“Yes, Mycroft.”  
   
It had been a ridiculous impulse; he’d still been half out of his mind at the time. Over the years Mycroft has been persuaded to give him most of what he needs, but he’s as controlled and methodical about it as in everything else. All pain, no passion. Mycroft mouths platitudes about safety, but Sherlock knows it’s really about fear, which is ridiculous. Sherlock trusts Mycroft more than Mycroft will ever trust himself.  
   
“What on earth were you thinking, Sherlock?” Mycroft’s voice is hard, but when Sherlock glances up his eyes give him away. It’s better if he doesn’t look.  
   
“I don’t know. I wanted…” He shrugs as best he can.  
   
In those crazy moments back at the flat, Sherlock had known he’d merited punishment right there and then, despite John, despite Janine. And for once he’d wanted the pain to be _real_ and not this cold, artificial substitute. Corporal methadone. He’d wanted Mycroft to retaliate, fiercely and spontaneously, much as he had that very first time, when he’d driven Sherlock away out of sheer desperation. He’d wanted Mycroft to really _hurt_ him, from his very depths.  
   
Mycroft might appear little more than an overfed bureaucrat, but he’s worked begrudgingly in the field well before Serbia, which makes him far from helpless. He could have easily have driven his heel into Sherlock’s shin, thrown his head back into the bridge of Sherlock’s nose. He’d simply chosen not to, had let Sherlock humiliate him because it was so _important_ to keep up appearances when other people were present. More than Sherlock, that’s what’s always mattered most to him. If not propriety, then at least a convincing facsimile of it. Sherlock wanted – still wants – to break that infuriating public composure, for Mycroft to show who he really is, what he’s really made of, how much Sherlock means to him. In front of John. In front of _everyone_. But Mycroft is far too cold, too clever. It’ll never happen.  
   
“You understand that such behaviour is _completely_ _unacceptable_.”  
   
“Yes, Mycroft.”  
   
Now Mycroft stands in front of him again, unbuckled, unzipped, and although it’s obviously just a trick of perspective – Mycroft’s prick is perfectly normal-sized, whatever that is – Sherlock feels a fluttery twinge of choking panic, embraces it.  
   
Mycroft’s fingers stroke down either side of Sherlock’s mouth, coaxing it open, and then he pushes himself inside, hard, as Sherlock struggles not to gag. Instead he sucks with a kind of desperate intensity as Mycroft’s hands twist in his hair, the sharp tugs of pain adding to the dull burn across his back. Not satisfied, Mycroft pushes in further, faster, and the tears of humiliation finally break their borders and spill down Sherlock’s cheeks, ignored by both of them. His world condenses to the insistent, relentless pressure of Mycroft’s thrusts, and then Mycroft’s breath hitches almost inaudibly as he shudders. Sherlock’s mouth is flooded with salt and bitterness as he swallows and swallows.  
   
Mycroft withdraws just as roughly, turning away to clean himself up. He returns to Sherlock after that, wiping away the tears from Sherlock’s cheeks, the spit and semen that trail from the corners of his mouth. Then he strokes a hand through Sherlock’s hair, gentler now, and leaves him there, returning to sit behind his desk and concentrate on his papers as best he can. Sherlock continues to kneel in silence, his head bowed in gratitude. The keys are still in his hand.


	12. Bread Basket

**Bread Basket:** a very small slice of bread, with only a small notch taken out of the top for grip. The word "breadbasket" is slang for the stomach (1,000 points).  
   
***  
   
 **2001**  
   
The memory of a single winter’s afternoon, New Year’s Day. Between the icy weather and the seasonal exodus, London has come to enough of a standstill that Mycroft’s taken the entire day off. Much of it has been spent chastely curled up in bed with Sherlock, who complains bitterly about the cold every time Mycroft attempts to get up and do something useful, such as actually stoking the fire.  
   
Throughout the day, there’s been reading, and a variety of stupid board games, and leftovers from the family Christmas in the fridge. The radio is on for the sake of news updates, and Mycroft’s phone still chimes occasionally, but advises nothing of importance. Sherlock is newly clean, and sober, and oddly subdued with it. There’s been a reasonable amount of bickering, but no unreasonable demands or pointed attacks. It is, Mycroft supposes, his version of gratitude.  
   
Unlike Sherlock, Mycroft rarely deletes anything. At most, he performs a kind of compression, an amalgamation of lesser memories. He might not remember every biscuit that ever passed his lips, or every sip of tea he’s ever taken, but all distinguishing features are carefully retained. This day, however, is stored complete in its entirety, cut from whole cloth, preserved. Between the muffling snow coming down outside the windows, and the relative peace of the flat, which has seen some spectacular rows in the past, it seems like a day out of time, separate and distinct from the rest of its flow. Despite the intrinsic unconventionality of their relationship, for once Mycroft feels so utterly _ordinary_.  
   
Perhaps there is something in it, after all. Perhaps this is how the goldfish feel, when they’ve just been fed and the waters are calm once more. He doesn’t bother expressing this sentiment to Sherlock, unwilling to invite mockery that will tear the fragile peace between them. But as the fire burns low that evening, Sherlock presses up close beside him, throwing a leg over his pyjama-clad thigh, and his general intention is plain enough. Mycroft hesitates, unsure of exactly what Sherlock wants, or whether such rough treatment would be appropriate at this time, either physically or mentally, but it’s as though Sherlock can sense his unspoken thoughts.  
   
“Nothing like that,” Sherlock says, his eyes gleaming and bright rather than the dull and dazed they had been only three months ago. “Only…”  
   
Then Sherlock’s mouth is on his, both of them unshaven, the soft rasping of cheek against chin. Sherlock’s hands undoing his pyjama top, one hand trailing through the thatch of hair on his chest before moving downwards. Lightly stroking the curve of his belly, much reduced from his younger days, but still round and soft beside Sherlock’s lean concavity. The amusement in Sherlock’s eyes.  
   
In truth, Mycroft has had far more to worry about recently than his physical state, and it’s an uncomfortable reminder. He wonders if Sherlock will ever realise the correspondence between Mycroft’s weight and his own behaviour. He moves Sherlock’s hand away without anger, pressing him down onto the bed and kissing him again to forestall any further commentary on the subject. The intertwining of their bodies is slow and careful, and unlike anything before or since. Sherlock is soft, pliant, accommodating, a world away from his usual demanding self. Yet for once Mycroft chooses not to question it, either. He only shuts his eyes and listens to Sherlock’s moans of pleasure, the sound of his name soft and breathless from Sherlock’s throat.  
   
Afterwards, they draw towards each other, instead of apart. Sherlock lets Mycroft kiss him slowly, tenderly, while the slickness on his belly smears between them. They shower together, and sleep tangled in each other’s arms.  
   
It won’t last. In a month’s time he’ll be tentatively giving Sherlock his first proper flogging, clumsy and yet so terrifyingly intense that neither of them will be aroused by it, not then. In a year’s time Sherlock will be gone again, this time into a flat of his own, unable to bear Mycroft’s overbearing concern (as he sees it), and Mycroft will be back on track towards the nice little spot in government he’s picked out for himself, while still wrangling his exasperating family on the side. Without even the pleasure of an extra bread roll at dinner for solace.  
   
His belly will become an ongoing battle as he ages, one he’ll work at as fixedly as he does everything else. He’ll never know whether Sherlock remembers that day as vividly as he does, but every time Sherlock passes judgement on his weight, he’ll wonder.


	13. Broken Heart

**Broken Heart:** a heart shape with a crack through it on the right side of the chest. The phrase "broken heart" refers to an emotional feeling in which someone is very sad for a reason such as a breakup with a romantic partner (100 points).  
   
***  
   
 **1996**  
   
“What exactly are you doing here?”  
   
“I can’t pay my own big brother a friendly visit?” Sherlock invades the room without apology, glancing about him. It’s a charmless office, small and poky, although Mycroft has nevertheless managed to acquire his own secretarial watchdog. Although not a particularly _good_ watchdog, given that it’s only just gone seven pm and her desk is already deserted.  
   
Mycroft continues to stand half-turned away from Sherlock, as he makes a great show of examining the folder he’s just extracted from a wall of its fellows. “A friendly visit – is that what this is?”  
   
“Your absences have been duly noted,” Sherlock says. “By _some_ of us, at least.”  
   
It’s something of an understatement; they’ve not seen each other for almost two years now. The first Christmas break there had been some dire emergency at work, while the next coincided with Mycroft’s long-scheduled holiday in Spain with ‘friends’. Sherlock had wanted to laugh out loud at the very idea. Of course his parents had been disappointed, but Mycroft had been careful to make up for it by coming home for occasional weekends throughout the year. Regretfully, those visits always happened to coincide with the times Sherlock was away at university.  
   
“I heard you graduated this year. So sorry I was too busy to attend.”  
   
“You’re really not.”  
   
“No,” Mycroft agrees. He looks up briefly from his reading. “Well, it was lovely to see you, but I’m afraid I’m very busy at the moment, goodbye.”  
   
There are two uncomfortable-looking wooden chairs directly in front of Mycroft’s desk, and Sherlock throws himself into into one of them. “You can’t avoid me for the rest of your life, Mycroft.”  
   
“Your confidence is misplaced.”  
   
“I’m not going to apologise.”  
   
“You’ll forgive my lack of surprise. Then why _are_ you here?”  
   
“Apparently Mummy thinks… you could find me a job. Doing something ‘useful’, as she put it. ”  
   
That manages to capture Mycroft’s attention. He finally turns a little way towards Sherlock, and an eyebrow raises. “Really? I’ve heard nothing from her on the subject.”  
   
“She didn’t want to give you a chance to refuse before I met with you in person. She appears to think that we’ve had some sort of a row. Can’t imagine where she got that idea.”  
   
A look passes between them. As fluffy as their mother’s thoughts often appear, they have both learned not to underestimate her. Dig down far enough through the cotton wool, and there was a tangled skein of steel.  
   
“Exactly how much does she realise?”  
   
“I’m not _stupid_ , Mycroft.”  
   
“You’ve already proven yourself quite wrong on that count.”  
   
Sherlock’s fingers tighten automatically on the arm of the chair. He’s not going to let Mycroft make him feel like this again. He’s not. Just because Mycroft doesn’t understand, couldn’t care about anyone or anything but himself and his precious career, the great fat lump. Even if he does seem to have lost a fair bit of weight since Sherlock saw him last. The principle still stands.  
   
“No. That was you being unreasonable.”  
   
The icy front Mycroft presents to the world is impressive, but Sherlock is always unerringly aware of the cracks around the edges. It’s only that Sherlock flaunts his vices in public, while Mycroft locks them up tight, would prefer to pretend they don’t even exist. However, Sherlock refuses to be ignored.  
   
“Please, Sherlock.” Mycroft finally returns to his desk, sits down. The folder is still in his hand, and there’s something slightly awkward about the way it settles on the wood. Sherlock can’t quite work out what it is. “Let’s not do this again.”  
   
“It’s not like we even did it the first time.”  
   
Under the circumstances it’s not really a joke, not even remotely amusing, but Mycroft’s mouth loses some of its severity. It curves with something Sherlock chooses to believe looks like regret.  
   
“I suppose I could call someone, set you up an interview. Something in the Attorney-General’s Office, perhaps?”  
   
Sherlock has been expecting something like this, if he even got this far. The Attorney-General’s Office is safely over in Victoria St, where Mycroft needn’t face the horrific prospect of accidentally crossing his path on a daily basis.  
   
“I didn’t say _I_ wanted you to find me a job.”  
   
“Ah,” Mycroft said. “Then why bother coming at all? It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve dared Mummy’s wrath.”  
   
Sherlock hesitates, then ploughs ahead. “I wanted to see you.”  
   
Much as Mycroft has learned to school his expressions, it doesn’t work. The tiny creases at his eyes and the angled tilt of his head clearly convey his surprise. For the first time since Sherlock entered, Mycroft faces him directly, and Sherlock is struck by the myriad of small changes in his face, the lines that weren’t there the night Sherlock saw him last. It’s more than just the superficial effect of ageing or weight loss; it’s something harder, harsher.  
   
For once, Mycroft stumbles over his words. “That’s remarkably… _forgiving_ of you.”  
   
Even without the benefit of near-perfect recall, their last encounter would have been difficult to forget. Sherlock had been clumsy, insistent. He’d thought logic and reason the best way to persuade Mycroft to his way of thinking, and he’d been wrong. He’d though Mycroft would never lower himself enough to use physical force against him, or that he was even capable of deploying it effectively; he’d been wrong about that too, as his bruises confirmed the next day.  
   
Most baffling was the knowledge that all of Mycroft’s objections had been based on lies. Sherlock had seen evidence of Mycroft’s physical attraction to him for months; since not long after attaining his full growth. In addition Sherlock was now clearly old enough to know his own mind on the subject, and they were both smart enough never to get caught. Everything since that long-ago childhood conversation had changed, and therefore it was only reasonable that Mycroft’s attitude should change, too. However, in this Mycroft had proven annoyingly, stubbornly constant.  
   
“I took your advice,” Sherlock says, although ‘advice’ was putting a generous spin on it. _Find someone else_ , Mycroft had shouted, or as near as he ever got to it. “And it didn’t change anything. Of what I said. You said I’d realise how unimportant it was, that I’d stop thinking this way about you, but it didn’t change anything. You were wrong.”  
   
“Yes,” Mycroft says, slowly, as though the admission is being dragged from him by force. “My experience at the time was… incomplete. The physical divorced from the emotional. I thought that was the only way it could be.”  
   
It’s Sherlock’s turn to be taken aback. Something he’d never even considered. Maybe the ‘holiday in Spain’ hadn’t been a complete fraud after all. “You… met someone. An _emotional_ someone.” It comes out sounding like an accusation, even though Sherlock has no right, no right at all.  
   
Mycroft looks away and doesn’t answer, but somewhere in the depths of Sherlock’s brain things suddenly click into place. He swiftly leans forward and lifts the tan-coloured folder from Mycroft’s desk. Underneath it, revealed, is a plain gold ring, which Sherlock seizes hold of even as Mycroft lunges forward to stop him, too late.  
   
When Sherlock had entered, he’d only seen Mycroft in profile – with a clear view of Mycroft’s left hand, but not his right. Mycroft had slipped the ring off his finger in order to hide it under the folder, hence the near-imperceptible tilt when he’d placed it on the desk. It was something he hadn’t wanted Sherlock to see. It’s an old ring, dull, clearly with many years’ wear, someone’s token of sentiment. No engraving. Mycroft’s right hand, so not a marriage, or at least not a traditional one. Yet still prominently displayed, at least before Sherlock’s interruption, so of significance to its wearer. The new, harsh lines in Mycroft’s face. His weight loss. Most telling of all, Mycroft’s expression at its discovery.  
   
“Heart attack,” Sherlock says automatically, without thinking. It stops Mycroft in his tracks as he rounds the desk, only a foot away. “Middle-aged, overweight, previously married, then divorced. He gave you his old wedding ring, or left it to you. You didn’t wear it until after he died. You don’t want to go the same way.”  
  
“Get out, Sherlock,” Mycroft snatches the ring from his unprotesting fingers and slips it back on, moving his hand behind his back protectively. His face is drawn and tight.  
   
Sherlock stares. Maybe Mycroft does understand something, after all. He gets up, but not to leave. Instead he steps forward, puts his arms awkwardly around his brother. Mycroft’s body is vibrating with tension, but he makes no move to either reciprocate or push Sherlock away. Being able to touch Mycroft, but only like this, is a form of torture in itself. The warmth, the smell of him, brings the longing to the surface all over again. Sherlock endures it in silence.  
   
Slowly, Mycroft’s breathing calms, until almost imperceptibly he begins to lean into Sherlock’s embrace. He draws in a single deep, shaky breath against the side of Sherlock’s face, and his hands come up and press against Sherlock’s back for the space of only a second. Then he disentangles himself completely and steps back, leaning slightly against the edge of his desk. Sherlock is left empty-handed, uncertain.  
   
For a long while Mycroft regards him intently, and in that silent space their mutual apologies are exchanged, examined, discarded. Finally, Mycroft clears his throat. “So, where are you staying?”  
   
“I…I wasn’t. I thought I’d be going straight back on the train tonight.” He’s not sure whether he should admit it.  
   
“I see.” Mycroft’s manner is uncharacteristically hesitant, and suddenly Sherlock knows. That this, _now_ , is the moment that matters. Not the dinner that might follow, or the conversation over drinks in Mycroft’s living room, or even the moment when Sherlock loses all patience and kisses him at last. Mycroft had the strength to forcibly remove himself from temptation once; they both know he won’t be able to do it again. Should he choose to be alone with Sherlock this time, truly alone, these things will follow, as inescapable as any physical law. What matters is now.  
   
“In that case,” Mycroft says, and Sherlock watches in fascination as his tongue flickers over his lips. “You could stop over with me. If you’d like.”  
   
“Yes,” Sherlock says, far too quickly, and his hand reaches out to brush against Mycroft’s before drawing away, a promise. “Yes, all right. I think I will.”


End file.
